Or, could it be he has changed his mind? Perhaps once he laid eyes on her, he was unhappy with her. Grace knew she wasn’t beautiful but was she so disappointing to the eye a scruffy mountain man could find her wanting? No. She sensed his attraction to her during their wedding ceremony. So what happened to change his mind about her between the letter he sent proposing marriage and her arrival in town? Did he know about her past? Grace was certain that couldn’t be it. If he knew her past and that she could be running from the law, he would have notified the sheriff who would have been waiting on her the moment she stepped off the train.
No, her years of watching poker faces across a card table had given her the ability to read people. And Mr. Malone was hiding behind his rough appearance and drunken behavior. She sensed it wasn’t about her. Something was off with Mr. Malone. She hoped whatever he was hiding wasn’t going to jeopardize her and her sisters’ future or bring the law down on her head.
Grace wanted to get to know this stranger before her wedding night but he seemed uninterested in conversation if the sound of clenched teeth held any clue.
She would let it be for now. Life was much like a game of cards. And she wasn’t about to tip her hand until her husband had some emotional investment in this game. Otherwise, she might as well fold now.
Settling back against the huge bench seat, Grace did her best to enjoy the ride to wherever it was she was going to spend the rest of her life.
John rested his forearms on his knees and guided his team out of town. Every bump and twitch of the wagon caused his head and stomach to churn. He really needed to stop skipping meals. He would stop in an hour or so and grab some hardtack out of the back of his wagon. Maybe even some goat cheese. That should settle his volatile stomach. He was grateful for the biscuit the Hanover’s blacksmith tossed him. Said he was makin’ up for his shenanigans the day before.
The rhythm of his team’s hoof beats pounding on the hard packed road lulled him into a sense of calm. He began to relax. He spent many hundreds of hours listening to that clopping sound and with each clop he counted the money he would make at the end of the road.
But now he was taking a stranger to his home. His new bride. That thought sobered him even more than the cold dunking in Mr. Hanover’s horse trough the second time around.
He did his best not to think about the woman sitting beside him. Neither of them had a chance to talk to each other before they’d said their vows. If he hadn’t been so drunk he couldn’t string two words together, he might not be married now. But, he couldn’t blame her for any of that. What was in that rotgut whiskey anyway? He admitted he didn’t normally drink much but even so, he could hold his liquor. The next time he saw Billy Buchanan, he’d have to find out what the hell he put in that stuff.
His thoughts drifted back to the woman sitting next to him. How was he going to keep her safe while he was hauling freight? He stole a sideways glance at his new wife. He had heard of mail order brides but had never seen one. What kind of woman would agree to marry someone she didn’t know? Travel across the country away from family and friends who could protect her? Who does that? He wondered. Someone who was out of options, he guessed. But why was this lovely young woman so desperate? Was she pregnant? Destitute? He would definitely learn her truth.
She sat beside him, hanging on to the seat rail doing her best not to touch him. He didn’t blame her for being, what? Angry? Frightened? He hoped she wasn’t frightened of him. That much was true. But if she was angry with him after the way he reacted when she grabbed his arm early, he could understand that. He had acted like a genuine ass.
He stole a glance at his wife’s profile. She seemed to be enjoying the scenery so it gave him an opportunity to observe her without those perceptive eyes of hers looking back. It was then he realized it was her eyes, whiskey colored and intense, that made his nether region twitch. He directed his errant thoughts to take stock of her physical attributes. She was slight of build, and stood barely as high as his shoulders. Her hands were smooth and untarnished, making it obvious she did not know hard work. Her skin was translucent but with a touch of color. Peach, maybe. No, rose. At least she spent some time outdoors. Well, that was a plus.
She turned toward him, catching him off guard.
“Do I meet with your approval, Mr. Malone?”
“That remains to be seen, Mrs. Malone.” He had no idea what made him say that. It was very rude and by the surprised look on his bride’s face, she thought so too. He turned his attention to the road, snapping the reins to speed up his team’s gait. The sooner he got this unwanted wife home, the sooner he could figure out what to do with her.
Home. A comfortable, spacious mountain cabin with a huge front porch and a very large comfortable bed. He built the place from the ground up exactly the way Lizzie wanted it. Enough room to cook and serve meals for a very large brood of kids. Memories of his lost family never failed to give him a low punch in the gut.
Regret would not do him or his new wife any good. He needed to figure out who was responsible for writing that damn letter. Until then, he needed to convince this young woman that being married to him was not a pleasant proposition.
Suddenly, a thought barreled through his whiskey-softened brain. Of course. If he took Grace to his home, his real home, she would fall in love with the place. And. Never. Want. To. Leave. What he needed to do was put this soft city girl in such a pickle, she would beg him to take her back to town and set her free. For the next hour, he mulled over his plan. Could he do it? Should he do it? He had yet to convince himself this was a good idea.
Two more hours passed and he pulled his team to a stop at the junction in the road that ran alongside the river. He looked right up the familiar road that would take him and his new wife away from the river and deep into the mountains. That road would take them home. To Lizzie’s home.
He hesitated, trying to gage the consequences of one choice over the other. He looked down the left fork that would take them to his family’s old hunting cabin. Small. Dark. Primitive. Perhaps he should feel the slightest twinge of guilt at the notion of tricking the poor woman. His conscience managed to conjure up four or five reasons why he shouldn’t do this. But one thought kept twisting in his head as surely as the stab of pain twisted in his heart. His wife and child were dead because he had made a thoughtless choice. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again.
“Are we lost?” His new wife sat on the seat next to him. Her face open. She was scared. And well she should be. His decision made, he snapped the reins and turned his team left onto the road that followed the river.
“No, Miss Sinclair. I know exactly where we are headed.”
With each pounding step, his team put more distance between the past and the present. This was the only way he knew he could save them both a whole lifetime of grief. He admitted it was a dirty trick. But he wanted this woman gone. And she would never learn the truth. She need not know she wasn’t wanted.
Besides, what did it matter how she left. Or why. All that mattered to him was that she wasn’t going to stay. There was no way in hell anyone was going to take Lizzie’s place in his heart. Not now. Not ever. And the guilt he carried regarding his wife’s death would never allow any room for love. The sooner this woman realized this was not a good match, the sooner she would go back to town and demand an end to this farce of a marriage.
He gathered his reins again sending his six draft horses into a wagon-jarring, teeth-rattling trot.
“Come on, gentlemen. Step it up. We have a bride who wants to see her new home.”
7
Grace clung to the wagon seat rail and held on as if her life depended on it. She wasn’t entirely sure it didn’t. Why on earth was this husband of hers in such a big hurry of a sudden? Did the man have no manners at all? She wondered. At least this was better than having the man gawk at her. Grace pursed her lips at the memory of her husband’s response to her catching him staring at her. At least his response had been truth
ful even if it was rather rude.
A few more miles of the bone jarring pace were all she could take. “Mr. Malone, would you please slow these giant beasts of yours. I’m barely able to keep from being bounced off this seat.”
He did as she asked and reined his horses bringing their gait to a more tolerable pace. Unclenching her fingers from the railing, she allowed herself to relax but she was ready in case he took it upon himself to lose his passenger along the side of the road.
The awkward silence grew until she could stand it no longer. One more attempt at polite conversation wouldn’t kill her. At least, she hoped that was the case. She cast a side glance toward the man now her husband. What exactly did she know about this man anyway?
"That's a beautiful river. What's it called?" Grace watched his stone-carved face for signs of a fracture or fissure. Nothing.
A poke in the side with a sharp stick should get a rise out of him. As gleeful as that would make her, she used as much restraint as she currently possessed. Determined to play her role of the proper wife, she placed her hands demurely in her lap and ground her teeth into dust. The man was impossible.
Finally, her stoic husband decided to speak.
"It's called the Rio Grande. It means large river." His words were clipped, giving the impression he would rather not talk.
Well, that was just fine with her. She turned her back to him as much as possible sitting next to him on the wagon seat. Silence was preferable company to the surly beast beside her. But, as hard as she tried to stay angry, it wasn’t long before her ire was replaced by awe.
The scenery surrounding her took her breath away. Kansas City, Missouri was dusty and dirty. The stench of open sewers and unwashed bodies was an everyday occurrence in her world. She inhaled deep breaths, pulling in the fresh scent of mountain pines. The glorious golds and yellows of aspen tree canopies over long stretches of the road was unlike anything she had ever seen before. It was amazing and this was to be her new home.
Her husband had turned his draft horses toward the left fork some miles back and now the road stretched out before them. Minutes grew into hours. She wondered how much farther to her new home but she clamped her jaws tight before the words could escape. Would her new home boast a lovely front porch like Mrs. Hanover's? She had always dreamed of having a porch she could sit on, protected from the weather, maybe in a rocking chair, shelling peas or knitting a shawl. Perhaps she would even be heavy with child before long. The thought made her blush. Could happiness be waiting for her at the end of this road? She dared to hope.
She stole a glance at her husband's profile. It was hard to tell what he looked like under all that scruff. Perhaps if she washed and cut his hair...and if he shaved his beard, he might even be handsome.
He turned and met her eyes, sky blue to earthy brown. His mouth curled up in a slight smirk. And finally, he spoke. "I see you studying me and I’m telling you don't be getting any ideas, Miss Sinclair." His emphasis on her name indicated he still wasn’t agreeable to her being Mrs. Just yet. Did he harbor ill will against her for this situation? But why would he? Wasn’t he the one who sent for her?
"Whatever do you mean, Mr. Malone?" She emphasized his name to show him she could give as good as she got.
"I will not be mollycoddled by a woman's hand. I will go where I please, when I please. And I will not answer to you as to my whereabouts. Understood?"
She looked him directly in the eye.
"What is good for the goose, Mr. Malone, is also good for the gander. If those are the terms of our marriage, then the same will apply to me as well."
"Very well, Miss Sinclair. As long as you do nothing to bring dishonor or embarrassment to my family's name." He huffed.
"Unlike you, Mr. Malone, I can assure you I will not appear drunk as a goose in public. Of that you can rest assured."
She twisted in her seat to face the other direction again. That man is impossible. What made him so surly? If she were in Rosie’s Saloon, she would send him packing at the end of her pistol. Hum. Perhaps she should have asked Mr. Hanover if it was against Colorado laws to shoot at one's husband. Well, of course it is. Shooting is pretty much against everyone’s laws unless a person was protecting herself. That’s why it is so unfair that Faith would be treated differently just because one of her parents was of Indian blood.
Shooting one’s spouse probably wasn’t the best way to start out a marriage. Not that she had all that much experience with society’s requirements for a young lady. Somehow she didn't think shooting a firearm at one's beloved would be tolerated in polite society. When she had a moment alone, she would look into the book she bought on Rosie’s advice. What was it called again, something about The Lady's Guide to Perfect Gentility, in Manners, Dress, and Something or Something? She couldn’t remember the rest but she was determined to act the proper lady and make a good wife so Mr. Malone would be inclined to treasure their marriage and, in time, bring her sisters here to live. She wished now she had studied the book on the train but with Mrs. Hanover's constant presence, there had been little opportunity to read it. Now that she knew Aggie had knowledge of her and Rosie’s secrets, it wouldn’t have mattered in the least.
As for her husband, he was a far cry from the gentleman in his letter. Please and thank you my--. Perhaps she should ask him outright why he had painted so false a picture of himself but if he told the truth, she would also be inclined to be equally honest. And that honesty could be her reluctant groom's grounds for an annulment. For now, she would keep her ruse to herself and perhaps someday she would actually become the demure, graceful housewife she pretended to be. She almost snorted aloud but she caught herself before the unladylike sound escaped her lips.
Silence drifted down upon the two of them like a chilly blanket of snow. She guessed she had better get used to this lack of communication since it appeared her new husband preferred it this way. She wanted to ask so many questions about her new life but instead she stared off into the beautiful distance.
Sometime later, she was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of Mr. Malone’s voice shattering the silence.
"Look, Grace. Can I call you Grace?" Her husband's voice sounded contrite.
"I think we can agree on that since it is my name." She took a deep breath. And began again. "Yes, I would like it very much if you called me Grace."
"Good, so, let's start over. You can call me John. I'll call you Grace," he offered.
She said nothing.
"So, I think it will benefit us both if we can remain civil to one another until we figure out what the future holds for us."
Grace bit the inside of her cheek to keep from retorting something very unladylike at his comment. She played with the fringe on her shawl taking a moment to compose herself and temper her response. "Mr. Malone--."
"John, remember," he urged.
"Yes, John. I'm not certain what the future holds for either of us but we are married in the eyes of the law and I assure you I will do everything I can to be a good wife. I expect you will do the same.
"I won't make a very good wife." He laughed.
"What?"
"You said you would do everything you could to be a good wife and expected me to do the same. I said, I won't make a very good wife. I can't sew and I don't like to cook." He looked at her and grinned a big toothy grin.
Grace couldn't help herself. She grinned back. Well, the man had a sense of humor. And, if his eyes and smile were any indication, he might actually be handsome under all that bush.
Satisfaction settled over her with each mile they passed. A little time. A little hard work. A little give and take. Yep. This could work. Grace settled back against the seat and enjoyed the warm September sunshine. She allowed a tiny spring of hope to bloom.
The sound of water splashing woke Grace from a sound sleep. Cold drops of water spun off the wheels and dotted her dress and face. “Where are we?”
She watched Mr. Malone pull the horses to a halt on the
other side of the river in front of a rundown cabin not far from the water’s edge. Her sleep infused eyes blinked taking in the scene before her. Windows boarded closed. Shingles mismatched all over its roof. A wooden door and two windows were all that graced the front of the place.
"Are we resting here?" Grace asked again as her husband helped her down from her seat on the wagon. She did need to stretch her legs and she could use some privacy to take care of personal matters.
John grinned from ear-to-ear behind his bushy beard. A chill snaked its way up Grace’s spine. Dealing cards had taught her to read a man’s face and that look meant something. And not a good something she feared. “Where are we, Mr. Malone?”
“We're home." He proclaimed with a sweep of his bear-sized paw.
Grace looked at him in shock and hoped against hope he was kidding. He began to unload the wagon and carry their supplies, and her things, into the wooden structure that apparently was her new home.
She would faint if she wasn’t so damned tired. Half a day’s ride was a long way from town. It wasn’t like she could just hike up her skirts and walk back. Her shock morphed into disbelief. She wasn't certain she would live long enough to make this...place into a proper home. Tears stung behind her eyes. She would not cry. She. Would. Not. Cry. Her purpose here was to make a new life for her and her sisters. She had no delusions her new life would come complete with a housekeeper and lace curtains in the window. But this?
Most disappointing of all was the lack of a porch. There was nothing but the ground frosted with last week’s snow and the crisp blue sky that she supposed would not always remain so clear. Or blue. This was not the home she imagined in her mind when she boarded that train to Colorado. She reminded herself this trip was not for the purpose of a happily-ever-after marriage. The purpose of this journey was to try and save Faith from prison. Or the hangman’s noose. Freeing her sisters from that lawless town was the reason she’d left Kansas City. Some form of hell had always been her home her entire life. She’d never had a choice before. But, this place, well, it might not look like much, but it was under her control. She was going to make this work. Hell or high water would not be able to stop her.
Grace Page 5
